Dog Tricks, by Sean Glatch

Another man’s touch, and
I want to break out of my body.

He presses his hands against me,
I press against myself like some scared animal

resisting its own cage. No one mentions
the beast that loneliness makes of you, years spent

cowering inside your body which is mostly
an abandoned house. He touches me

and I’m an atom bomb worth remembering,
a nuclear fission fuck up,

how desperate these atoms are
to split his atoms, to roll around in his body

without guilt,
our bones pressed so close we lose track

of whose skin is whose. Instead of this,
of knowing so intimately his nails in my back

or the hair on his chest, on his navel, down
to his big toe, or the way his smile

escapes gravity, I am left a starving creature
who would end its own hibernation

to consume his heat in winter moonlight.
He left his fingerprints on my thighs

and I studied myself like a crime scene.
He said “love”

and I was not a body
worth loving. To be a body

is the loneliest thing in the world.
There are countless verbs

for wanting something, but none of them
hurt like this.


Published 27th February 2019


About Sean Glatch 
Sean Glatch is a poet located in Orlando, FL. He runs weekly poetry workshops at the University of Central Florida and is the literary editor for Tongue Tied Mag. Sean’s work is forthcoming or featured in Rising Phoenix Press, Ghost City Review, Bombus Press, 8Poems, and L’Ephemere Review. He spends most of his day thinking about his next cup of coffee. You can find him on twitter @seanyglatch